


The Next Time the World Explodes

by Phantomwriter1231



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18893296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomwriter1231/pseuds/Phantomwriter1231
Summary: As it just happens, Commander Riker has gotten injured while on an away mission. As always, Deanna Troi is by his side. Riker is heavily medicated and Deanna has the patience of a saint. What happens when the two of them stay alone? Will their thwarted relationship flourish once again or will it be forever destroyed? Turns out we all have our ghosts from the past.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> * Keeping in mind that Deanna is a psychologist I wanted to make do with what little I had. There are some parts of the characters that are not cannonically studied, this work is an ode to all that. 
> 
> *Names like Freud, Adler, Jung are referencing the classical theorists in psychology. 
> 
> *ABA --> applied behavior analysis, mode of therapy
> 
> * EMDR--> eye movement Desintitization and reprocessing, also a mode of therapy
> 
> * Notes From the Underground--> Fyodor Dostoevsky
> 
> *The Antichrist--> Friedrich Nietzsche

Part I  
He recognizes he isn’t worthy of her. Deanna Troi is way too much woman for him and he’s certainly disappointed her more times than he can count. But still she sticks around; always at his side. Come hell or high water, in sickness and in health, but always at his side.

This time it is no different. It is just his luck to get wounded during an away mission. He has bruises everywhere; even in places he didn’t know could bruise, scratches in his forehead and arms, four broken ribs, and a concussion. He is to remain in bedrest for at least a week, Beverly instructs and keeps ranting on and on about security procedures as she scans him with her medical tricorder for the nth time since he was beamed to sickbay. 

And all through it there she is; beautiful and aristocratic, as always, with a look of worry in her eyes that makes him want to pull her toward him and kiss her on the spot. If Beverly weren’t in the room and his body didn’t hate him as much as he hates himself for thinking about her in such a lascivious manner, he probably would’ve done so. 

“Before you begin,” he says, both hands flying up in a defensive manner, “I’m okay!” She walks into sickbay with that usual slyness of hers that always reminds him of a pampered kitten. She is royalty, and she knows it.

The unusual volume of patients has Beverly running out, and they are left alone almost immediately.

“Even you don’t believe that,” Deanna says donning a smile that attempts to erase the lingering dread that clouds her eyes, but it fails to do its job properly. She’d always been able to lie to herself more easily than she had to someone else, especially if ‘someone else’ was Will. 

Deanna lifts a shaking hand to his forehead, right at the hairline, where an ugly gash lays in plain view. That’s bound to leave a scar.

“Will, what exactly happened down there?”

“We were scanning for samples of an unknown mineral when our tricorders detected life signs.”

“But I thought there were no life signs.” 

“So did we, so naturally we took it for one of our own who’d gotten left behind.”

“Only it wasn’t,” Deanna begins to understand now as she sees Will nod. 

“There is a pre-warp civilization down there; I fell into one of their hunting traps while they attacked us with their primitive weapons.” The Betazoid takes a hard, clean look at him; as if wanting to make sure there is nothing missing.

“That explains the broken ribs and the concussion, but it looks like you took the worst of it.”

“It certainly feels like it, too.” His tone is beyond acerbic, even when he wants sweetness instead. She winces, an intrepid hand splaying across his chest. She hasn’t touched him this way in years, and Will can feel his heart kickstarting with the sweetness of it all. He can read her like a book from cover to cover, he knows her every nook and cranny of that slender body, inside and out. 

Her free arm coils softly around his neck. 

“Don’t you ever dare scare me like that again, William Thomas Riker!” She means it as a form of threat, but her voice breaks and she practically has to bite her tongue to keep from calling him “Bill” or even “Imzadi.” To Will, it comes out sounding very much like that time at Farpoint Station, when she begged him not to go even when she had reason to be angry; reason to hate him with all her might.

But ‘Hate’ is word too abject to fit within the context of Deanna’s ample vocabulary. She’s all love with a few ghosts of her own and a propensity to quote books. 

It has now been close to three years. They are older than they were back then, wiser, too. And Will cannot help but draw her close to him, impossibly so, and ask for forgiveness once and again.

Deanna soothes, runs a hand through his hair lovingly. Her heart skips a beat and a swarm of butterflies unleashes in the pit of her stomach. That might be an inadequate metaphor, she thinks; more like killer bees. The professional in her cites information from one of her neuroscience textbooks. It’s not love, it’s only a sequence of chemicals and neurotransmitters flowing in her brain. And then again, the psychologist in her would quote Freud and tell her she is rationalizing. 

“Shh, we’ll talk about this later, okay? For now, let’s get out of here.” They walk laboriously toward Will’s quarters, him trying to walk as steadily as possible despite the sharp pain in his abdomen, her as always offering constant support. 

His cabin sits like a white, metallic ghost in the middle of a practically empty hallway. There is a simple, metallic plate on the door stating his name and rank. Will enters his access codes, heavily relying on Deanna for balance, and the doors whoosh open. Deanna carries him toward the sofa by the viewport, then disappears off toward the hidden portions of the cabin. She returns minutes later, with a cup of Valerian tea and an analgesic for the pain. With utmost care, remembering her scarce medical training, she presses the hypospray to his neck, avoiding the lacerations and fresh bruises. She then hands him the tea.

“This should alleviate the pain a bit.” But by now the cat’s out of the bag and there is a giant, purple elephant in the room. 

“Deanna?” Her name rolls out of his lips in a whisper, like a prayer.

“Yes, Will?”

“I don’t want any painkillers. I want to talk about this; about us.” Will sees her swallow, trying to compose herself, and his own mouth goes dry. 

“I thought everything that was to be said was already said.”

“It is not. I still have more to say,” Will swallows harshly, looking at Deanna’s black-as-night eyes fixed on his, “Please, Deanna, just listen to me. If not for our current relationship, then do it for the love you once felt toward me.”

Deanna says nothing, but deep inside she is burning with the desire to run away and hide in the smallest of crevices she can possibly find in the Enterprise. At the same time, she wants to tell him to shut up, that she has never forgotten him and that she still is madly in love with him just like she was all those years ago. But the words won’t come out, and she finds herself just looking at him. His mind and his feelings are nothing but a jumble, nothing makes sense to her.

“Could you help me up for a minute?” She does, walking with Will at a hindering pace. When she tries to help him pass the bedroom door, however, he holds out a hand and asks her to wait for him. 

The room is in shadows, but he does not bother to ask the computer for the lights. With painful effort, Will manages to reach the bedside table. He draws out a dusty, old paperback from the first drawer to his left and walks back out into the common room. He doesn’t bother to close the drawer.

Deanna is sitting by the viewport, long legs lost under her lithe frame. Eyes fixed on the void of space. He walks to her, splays a hand on her back. Slowly she unravels, eyes sliding past the viewport and back to him. Will hands her the paperback and observes as her eyes open wide, recognizing the title. The cover, black with red lettering, reads Shakespearean Sonnets. 

A shallow gasp leaves her lips like an exorcised ghost. Will observes as her eyes, black as the darkest night, water. 

“All these years…” she lets out, “you kept it?” Her long, bony fingers open the cover, her eyes find her name at the very top. The handwriting, so very delicately hers, curls and twists into a gracious tracing of black, gel ink. 

“Yes, I kept it.” Deanna notices the signs of wear on the spine, the dog-eared pages making the book look bulkier than it is, and the fine paper of the cover beginning to tear. He must’ve read it about a thousand times; and her heart flutters at he fact that he hasn’t just shoved it in a drawer and forgotten all about it.

A quick movement of her wrist and things start flying about the room. A polaroid, a dried-up rose, and a blade of grass fall into her lap. The latter she has no clue where it came from, but the rose she recognizes as the one she gave him before he left for the Potemkin. The polaroid brings even more tears to her eyes; it is of the two of them, young like the buds of May and feverishly in love. 

“I know it’s silly, but I just couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. Whatever happened between the two of us, poor book’s as innocent as they come.” A smile breaks into her face, then she loses it, laughing at Will’s witticisms. And Will wipes an insurrect tear from her blushing cheeks. “That’s it, all good now. That’s the smile I wanted to see. You’re far too beautiful to be crying.” Deanna can help the fact that it’s been years since the last time they were this brutally honest with each other and blushes even harder.

“Will, I…” She’s left speechless when a stout index finger lands on delicate rose-colored lips.

“Imzadi,” Will starts, “I know I was the biggest of idiots when I gave you up to go to the Potemkin. It is and always will be my biggest regret…”

“Will,” Deanna puts an end to his babbling, a hand landing lovingly on his face, “I let you go because I thought it was what made you happy.”

“And it did, it truly did. For a while, it did. But when I arrived on the Enterprise and I saw you… By God, you were beautiful; even more so than how I remembered you, and you were splenetic. You approached me and I could tell by the degree of frigidness in the way you spoke and acted that you were beyond pissed. You were right; as always, the least I could do was a call. But I didn’t call, I didn’t keep the connection going. Instead of choosing to keep in touch, I chose to disappear. Very much like my poor excuse for a father.”

“Yes, you could have. And yes, I was beyond pissed.” 

“Damn it, Deanna! Could you be any less vague? Most women would be choleric with all of it. Some would even try to inflict pain…”

“Bill,” she says, “You forget I am not most women.” And the sweet euphemism slides though her tongue and past her lips. It’s been a long time, too long since they’ve been this close and yet so far away. “It is true that I was angry. In my mind, you were able to move on quickly enough and I was clearly too involved to let you go once and for all. There was a moment, right before you arrived, when I was able to convince myself of the fact that I’d put your memory behind me but when you did arrive on the ship everything came back like a tsunami. Every minute of every hour that I was sitting on that bridge it was as if someone drew a dagger through my heart over and over again.” 

“Imzadi,” Will is speechless. Words elude him and he is afraid he, too, might start crying if he doesn’t do something soon.

“Come sit down,” she says, and he remembers he is still standing up and that Beverly prescribed lots of bedrest. He complies, sitting heavily next to her with robotized, brusque movements. His hands slowly find Deanna’s, still holding the polaroid. 

“Will you ever be able to forgive me, Deanna?” Silver eyes meet obsidian ones, and there is a moment of silence. Then her head lowers, and she fixes her eyes in their joined hands; as if mustering the audacity to speak. 

“I already did,” she reflects, “I thought about you so often throughout the years that I never realized I did until a few weeks ago.” 

“I don’t deserve you, Deanna.” And the professional within her goes off like a proverbial timebomb. Her hands begin to itch, and she must stop herself from psychoanalyzing every single one of his movements. 

Will’s eyes drop to the floor, focusing instead in the grime atop his, otherwise immaculate, boots. 

“Hey,” she says, voice now down to a whisper, “hey, look at me,” her hand lands on his chin to force him to look at her, but his eyes remain locked on the floor. “Will, please look at me,” she implores, and sure enough he does. What he finds in his eyes goes beyond anger, beyond regret, beyond dejection. She’s not even sure she can put a name to such feeling. Again, both of her arms coil softly around his neck, an embrace so sweet and yet so bitter at the same time. Will, his own arms coiling around her lean waist, allows for silence to fall over them, like a blanket. 

She plays with his hair, her head reeling at the speed of Will’s own, then notices how the turmoil stops and everything is quiet. Will has fallen asleep in her arms. Deanna is hesitant to move and risking waking him up. 

“Crusher to Counselor Troi,” her combadge comes alive with a chirp, startling her. She taps her own badge.

“Troi here. Go ahead, Bev.”

“How’s will doing?”

“Just fell asleep, but I can see he still is in pain despite the dose of triptacedrine I gave him earlier.”

“He does have four broken ribs and a possible concussion. How much did you give him?” 

“30 ccs. He should be good for a few hours; I didn’t want to overdo it.”

“Good, keep that dosage as is and make sure he drinks plenty of water. Dry mouth is a side-effect of the medication.” 

“Will do. By the way, Beverly. Exactly why did you call me and not, say, Captain Picard?”

“Because he needed someone to take care of him and force him to stay in bed. Picard might be the captain of this vessel, but you know how big of a baby Will can be when he is sick. Plus, Katherine Pulaski told me what happened with Will a few months back in Surata IV.” Deanna rolls her eyes.

“I’m going to kill her!”

“Well, she was the CMO for a year, Deanna. She had to brief me.” Deanna rolls her eyes once again, a very human gesture she’d learned from her father just to infuriate her mother.

“Yeah, right.” Deanna closes the channel.

 

Will wakes up to find himself on the sofa. Someone has put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket all the way to his neck. The room is in shadows from corner to corner. 

“Computer, lights at fifty percent.” Now that the room is somehow brighter, he looks around. Atop the coffee table, sitting in a neat pile, are the book, the dried rose, and the polaroid. There is a hypospray next to the heap of silent items, and next to it a cup of lukewarm Valerian tea. There is no sign of Deanna, however, and Will asks himself if everything was nothing more than a dream. 

He tries to make a movement, but a sharp pain on the top of his abdomen sends him in a howl. Even the mere act of breathing hurts. Whatever was on that hypospray clearly wasn’t doing its job.

“Easy, Will, you’ve got four broken ribs,” the voice emanates at the center of his brain, it ripples through him like a river of honey.

“Where are you?” he asks, not outwardly, but instead conjuring the question in his mind.

“I needed something from my office. I’m on my way, I’ll join you shortly.” 

Sure enough, she makes her appearance known a short while later. This time she carries a portfolio with an unknown number of PADDs.

“Crew reports?” he asks, pointing at it. She nods.

“The Captain allowed me to play nanny, just as long as I don’t neglect my duties.” Will feigns insult now, cheekily eliciting a smile from Deanna.

“For your information, missy, I do not need a nanny.”

“Do I need to remind you what happened after the incident on Surata IV?”

“Please, don’t.”

“I rest my case, then, Commander.” She sets her portfolio on the coffee table, the piles and piles of almost a week of accumulated paperwork. “How are you feeling?” she asks, eyes boring into his.

“Well… like I fought a Klingon and the Klingon won,” she laughs.

“It is only to be expected. How’s your head? Any headache? Blurry vision?” He denies with a single head gesture.

“Good.” Somehow, the atmosphere of brutal honesty from earlier bleeds into one of trepidation now. Will’s throat goes dry and he must swallow multiple times before speaking.

“Deanna, would you mind getting me a glass of water, please?”

“Not at all,” she says, scampering off toward the replicator, “Beverly said this might happen; it’s a side-effect of the medication.” 

“I feel like I have a hangover.” 

“You don’t get ‘hangovers,’ Will. You never did.” She hands him the glass of water. 

“Sometimes it scares the crap out of me how well you know me. You’re not reading my mind, are you?” Will takes the glass up to his lips and takes small sips. He swallows slowly, as if the mere act of doing so hurt just as much. 

“You know fairly well; I don’t read minds. As per my empathic abilities, let’s just say there are some lines I never cross.”

“Like?”

“Like you, for one.” Will sets the glass on the coffee table as his eyes shoot up to look at her.

“Why Deanna? Why don’t you ever cross that line with me?” Their eyes meet this time. Will can now find within her the answer he seeks, he can find in her eyes the woman he fell madly in love with, all those years ago back in Betazed. 

“Because you’re too important to me, Imzadi, and I’m afraid of what I can find if I only do so much as look.” There is that brutal honestly again; and the sweet, sweet endearment rolling so naturally of her tongue. She still is standing, and he takes her hand and pulls her toward the couch, next to him.

“Imzadi,” Will speaks in a whisper now, shortening the distance between the both of them, “Please, forgive me.”

“Will,” his name rolls out of her tongue like the waters of Lake El’nar, “We already spoke about this. Please… Imzadi, no more guilt.” 

“Deanna, I…” 

“Bill, enough. For now, enough.” He plunges a hand into the crinkly, black mass of her hair, his other still grasping tightly to her own.

“You’re just as beautiful as when I first met you.” The total frankness in his tone makes a sudden blush creep to her cheeks and a small smile spread through her lips.

“Flatterer!” she says.

“No,” he amends, “Only a man in love admiring the beauty of his beloved.”

Will cuts the distance between them even further, little by little, until it is impossible for them to get any closer. Their lips meet finally, one astonishing symphony of synchronicity, austere one minute and a raging fire the next. It’s been a long time, too long, and their lips hunger for far more than a simple kiss. The swarm of killer bees in the pit of Deanna’s stomach comes alive once again, and heat rises to her cheeks even more violently than before. 

The need for oxygen breaks them apart. Chest heaving, forehead to forehead, hand in hand, they allow for their heartbeats to steady down to a normal flutter. There is silence, the room is now in shadows, but little do they seen to mind. 

“Sickbay to Counselor Troi,” it is the comm that breaks their pristine reverie. She smiles, taps the Starfleet insignia close to her heart. 

“Go ahead, Doctor.” Her mind is befuddled, and something so routine as answering a communication channel appears difficult. 

“How’s Will doing?”

“Bruised to an inch of his life, but fine. He did mention the medication made him feel a bit queasy.” 

“Hmmm… make sure he drinks plenty of water, his exams came up and he is severely dehydrated. Remember what we spoke earlier. Has he any headache or blurry vision?”

“No, he says he feels fine.” A lean hand lands on Will’s hair, running smoothly through it. 

“That’s excellent. Let me know if anything changes. Crusher out."

Deanna closes her end of the channel, turns to look at Will. He laughs and pulls her in his arms.

“There’s no privacy on this damn ship!” Deanna laughs, her laugh a song to his ears.

“I agree,” Will pulls her toward him once again, their lips touch vaguely, “But don’t worry,” she adds, “Since I will be the one babysitting you, we’ll spend plenty of time together.”

“I told you, Beautiful, I do not need babysitting.” He plants another kiss on her lips, longer than the last, this one a spreading wildfire. A thin, lanky hand splays on his chest then another.

“Will,” her voice is barely a whisper, a warning so much for herself as it is for him. She can feel the proverbial electricity zapping between them, and the amount of energy she employs in the mere act of restraining herself is so great that it could be enough to power the Enterprise and four other galaxy-class starships. 

“I know. Slowly,” she nods, then stands up, walks to the replicator. She inputs a code after another and a cup of coffee with milk and a slice of chocolate cake materialize on the replicator pad. She saunters back to the couch, hands him the coffee. Will examines at it.

“You remembered?”

“How could I not? You tormented me with it for months.” Will laughs as Deanna takes a bite of her chocolate cake.

“Now, why do I get the feeling we’ve been here before?”

“That’s because we’ve been here before, Imzadi.” He is clueless, and she adds, “Betazed, stardate 35241.01.”

“Oh, that’s right! Your 22nd birthday!” Deanna nods with a smile and takes another bite of chocolate cake, “You were wearing that skimpy, pink dress your mother forced you to wear…”

“And that barely covered anything,” she finishes for him.

“You nearly drove me half-mad. Only the Four Deities know how the hell I restrained myself.”

“And a fine job they did at that! If my memory serves me well, you were like a kitten on hot bricks for most of the night.”

“Damn right, I was! Had your mother breathing down my neck!”

“Liar!” she laughs, “It wasn’t my mother’s presence what had you at the edge of your seat; it was the way Emmett Wilson was looking at me from the other end of the room.” He laughs again. It’s been a while since they were together, but he knows better than to argue with an empath; particularly this empath. 

“Well, what can I say, Darling? I’m a jealous man, especially around you.”

“Oh, that I know; you don’t have to tell me.”

“You’re sharp as a tack today, aren’t you?”

“With you, I have to be. Besides, you needn’t be jealous, Commander. I’ve been yours since the first moment we met that fateful, rainy day in that old, dusty café back in Betazed."

“Yes; as I remember, you were sitting alone with a cup of black coffee and a copy of Notes from the Underground.”

“It was The Antichrist, actually,” and suddenly the small smile that has creeped her way into her pale complexion turns into a bitter scowl she has no time to bite back before he notices, “And it was the fourteenth anniversary of my father’s death. That’s why the black coffee was just sitting there, why every year on that day I set out a cup of black coffee and just sits there until it goes cold.” 

“Yes, it always weirded me out when you did that, and you never told me why. But I figured we all have our rituals, very much like Worf’s especial calisthenics program or Captain Picard’s Shakespearean stories. I was sure it was a Dostoevsky, thought.”

“The human brain is terrible at recalling information…aaand I am babbling.” Her eyes have turned into black storms of grief, and he intends to bring back the brilliance of her; all of it.”

“I love it when you babble, Imzadi.”

“Gods, no! I sound like a middle-schooler!” She shudders, eliciting a smile from him. 

“A cute middle-schooler, then.” He kisses her again; less urgency and more sweetness this time. She closes her eyes, her brain turning to mush for about two seconds, then her reaction time kicks in and she manages to push him away. Will can see in her eyes that all clouds of the storm have rolled away and instead replaced with the effervescent hum that usually is the antecedent of passion.

“Alright, enough of this, William Riker. You’re trying to sweet-talk me, and I won’t have that. Off to bed with you, right this instant! If my memory serves me well, the Doctor prescribed bedrest,” she scolds, very much in the tone a mother would use with her recalcitrant children. Will whines like a two-year-old with a temper, but he knows Deanna’s temper is much worse. He’s had the opportunity of seeing it a few times and he does not want to elicit it. 

So, he goes off to bed, and Deanna injects another 30 ccs of triptacedrine into his neck before covering him up for a blanket. She kneels, tucks back a loose strand of graying, black hair and caresses his cheek lovingly with the back of a pale, bony finger.

“I’ll be outside,” she says, obsidian buried into cool gray, “Call me if you need anything.”

For the next three to four hours, she hears not a peep. She assumes he sleeps, since she cannot feel the constant rumination that she’s come to identify as his and only his. Deanna opens her portfolio, pulls out a handful of PADDs and disposes herself to get some work done; but she finds her mind wandering between Will’s condition and the conversation they just had. Her lean, right hand flies up to touch her lips lightly, right where Will’s were just a moment ago. 

“Oh, for Goodness’ sake! I’m like a lovesick teenager!” Her comm goes off, but instead of Beverly it’s the Captain’s voice that comes through.

“Picard to Counselor Troi.”

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“How is Commander Riker doing?”

“No signs of blurry vision or headaches, no major infections for what I can tell. He is bruised to an inch of his life, has a severe case of dehydration, and four broken ribs. He’s be okay, though. Will is as strong as he is pigheaded. He is asleep right now.”

“Why, Counselor, maybe we should let you play Riker’s nanny more often!”

“Gods, no! Once is more than enough, he is a big baby when he gets sick.”

“Yet, you still nurse him back to health every time. I always wondered what that was about.”

“Maybe one day I’ll tell you all about it, Sir.”

“I’d like that. Keep me updated. Picard out.” Deanna closes her end of the comm channel, forces her eyes down on the PADD in her hand. Paperwork won’t fill itself out.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deanna's mother comes aboard the Enterprise, but she is a tad ... different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than part one. Explanations about unfamiliar terms in part one notes.

A few weeks later, he’s back on the bridge taking over for Captain Picard as he spends some time in Holodeck 3. His ribs have somewhat healed by now, and Beverly has lifted the concussion warning. He is now free to move about the ship and even work, provided he doesn’t overdo it.

Deanna nursed him back to health for nearly three full weeks before she had to go back to work. By then, he was worse than a grumpy kid. He was bored out of his mind, tired of sleeping all day, and impatient to go back on the bridge. So Deanna, the patience of a saint, did what her own mother would’ve done with her when she was a child and gave him something to keep him busy. There were crew reports and evaluations to be done and signed, so she kept him busy until he was ready to go back.

  
A week after that, he was cleared for duty and back on the bridge. The sweet humming of the engines and the constant thrills of the stations’ consoles were beautiful music to his ears. Deanna kept checking up on him, every morning before they each went about their duties and at night.

  
Today, she isn’t on the bridge, but he knows exactly where to find her. Crossing a few words with Data he walks out and into the turbolift. Spitting out a quick command, he observes as the lift awakes from the morbid state. He finds himself in deck fifteen and walks with decisive pace toward Deanna’s office.

  
She is standing at the door, conversing with a young ensign he has trouble recognizing. He waits; one smug shoulder props against the gray bulkheads. She knows he is there. She can feel him, pulsating violently at the termination of her synapses. Her lips curve into a smile.

  
“Take care, Sam. See you next week,” and as the young ensign walks away, she turns to look at him.

  
“It’s rude to stare, Commander,” she chides as he pulls away from the bulkhead, “How long have you been there?”

  
“Couple minutes didn’t want to interrupt.” They go inside, and as the doors close she rushes into his arms looking for comfort. He plays with a loose ringlet of her hair.

  
“Rough day?” he asks and she nods.

  
“Terrible. Three cases of plasmaphobia, two sessions of grief counseling, Reg with his social anxiety, and one case of trichotillomania. What the bloody hell was I thinking when I signed up for this?”

  
“Now, here I thought piloting a 5000-ton spaceship was difficult! Come on, spit it out. What’s got you so worked up? I know you well enough to know it’s more than just a little hair-pulling disorder.”

  
“My mother,” she sighs, “she’s coming aboard today, 1700 hrs.”

  
“It’ll be okay, Love, you’ll see.”

  
“Okay? Have you forgotten what happened the last time she came aboard? The embarrassment she put me through?”

  
“Deanna…” he starts, but she interrupts him.

  
“I know, I know. She’s my mother, and I love her. But sometimes I wish she wasn’t so ...eccentric.” Will laughs, keeps toying with her hair.

  
“Dee, it’ll be fine, you’ll see. Your mother will come aboard, you two will celebrate the anniversary of your father’s death, - which I happen to know is why you’re evading me and practically all social contact lately - Lwaxana will be on her way, and everything will return to normal before you get a chance to complain about her ‘eccentricity.’”

  
Deanna sighs again, pulls both their bodies to a nearby drab-gray settee. Will can see diplomas on the greenish walls, ABA and EMDR certifications, Starfleet Academy awards, a Psycholinguistics degree, and in the farthest corner closer to the bureau and next to the shelf where he knows she keeps most of her print books (Freud, Jung, Adler, you name it and she’s got it) hangs a photograph.

  
“Is that him?” he asks, pointing at the man of mischievous smile clad in a Starfleet science-blue uniform, in his arms a little girl of curly, onyx hair and obsidian pools for eyes.

  
“Hmm?”

  
“Your father, is that him?” She nods.

  
“It’s the last I’ve got of him. Mother decided she wanted to get rid of his things after he died. Her way of dealing with the grief of it all, I suppose. The only thing she kept was that picture. Gave it to me as a graduation present. I can’t even remember when it was taken. It’s been so long.”

  
Will says nothing, internalizes the discourse she’s just given.

  
“Will?”

  
“Yes, Imzadi?”

  
“How did you know it was the anniversary of my father’s death? I never told you the date.”

  
“That somber expression in your eyes, it’s the same as the day I met you. Whatever happens, I’ll always be there for you, Deanna. This time I’m not going anywhere.”

  
“In the name of all that’s holy, what the bloody hell do you do to me, Riker? Every single time you so much as look my way, my legs turn to gelatine.”

  
There are no more words after that; only tears and kisses and holding each other tight. Deanna, her entire body rocking so violently with sobs that Will thinks she is about to come undone any time soon, gradually calms down in his very arms.

 

 

She feels her even before Will’s voice comes through the comm system. Her presence, as always, is nothing less than a typhoon of thought and energy.

  
“Riker to Counselor Troi.” A beat and no response on her part, “Your mother’s just come aboard.”

  
“Acknowledged,” she says, voice cool and placid enough to not give her away. She closes her eyes and slumps on her chair, a posture she knows her mother would disapprove of. Deep breath in, exhale, and she rises from her seat. A firm tug at her clothes and she’s out the door and into the hallway. She glides toward the nearest lift, just a few meters away.

  
“Transporter Room 3.” And the metal giant awakens with a soft humming and a spectacle of light.

 

 

“Little One!” her mother’s voice is vivid on her frontal cortex, she drapes long arms around Deanna’s frail, lithe frame.

  
“Hello, Mother.” She too replies telepathically as she folds her hands around the elder Betazoid. She assesses her appearance, ever the detail-oriented counselor. Layers of black upon black upon black cradle her body. Never has she seen her mother so subdued before, and it comes as a random shock to the system. Trailing behind her as always is Mr. Homm, her mother’s heavy luggage in tow. He gives her a nod and proceeds to step down from the transporter pad. Deanna acknowledges him with a nod of her own. Then it’s back to the real world.

  
“Captain, Commander.” Lwaxanna acknowledges the rest of the company, clad in freshly-starched dress uniforms. Deanna’s eyes nearly pop out of her skull. Is this her mother or some alien they’ve encountered? The Captain and Will look just as astounded as she, the surprise written all over their faces. Their heads are a different matter altogether; they are a jumble of thoughts she can’t decipher and that mix with her own messy ones. She expected to find a ball of energy with enough irreverence to last three lifetimes, but instead, she finds a different woman than she’s known all her life.

  
It is Will who reacts first, snapping out of the hazy surprise caused by the woman’s change in behavior.

  
“Right this way, Mrs. Troi. Your quarters are ready and waiting for you.”

  
“Thank you, Commander.”

  
They venture out onto the hallway. Mother and daughter walk in front. Picard and Riker tag behind them, soon followed by Homm and Lwaxanna’s luggage.

  
“So, tell me, Little One. How have you been in the last couple of weeks? I know this is always a difficult time of year for you.”

  
“I’ve got a few things to tell you. A lot has happened since we last saw each other.”

  
“Like?” Deanna says nothing, but looks slightly behind her shoulder at Will. Lwaxanna doesn’t say or think a word, and limits herself to look at her daughter with another sly smile. Deanna, arms at her side, tries hard to conceal a laugh. She can’t remember a time in which she’s shared so much complicity with her mother, and she treasures this one like her very life depends on it.

  
“Here are your quarters, Ambassador Troi; I hope you find them up to your standards,” says Picard when they arrive at a gray door with a red plate on it. It reads _Special Guest Quarters._

  
“Thank you, Captain. I am sure they’ll do just fine.” Lwaxanna sends over a smile. Picard tightens his hands at his side, nods, and excuses himself.

  
Will finds Deanna’s eyes, formulates in his mind the words “Call me if you need anything,” and after Deanna reassures him she will call on him at the first glance of trouble, he excuses himself; mimicking Picard. Mr. Homm disappears into the bedroom, leaving mother and daughter alone in the sitting room.

  
“Well, Little One, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you two are together once again.”

  
“And you wouldn’t be in the wrong, Mother. Will and I have decided that what we had was far too strong to simply be thrown away. We decided to give it another shot.”

  
“My sweet girl, how you have grown. Your father would’ve been so proud of the woman you’ve become. And Will, I can see in the way he looks at you he adores you. Whatever you do, Little One, never let him go.”

  
“I won’t make that mistake again. You have no idea, Mum, the last few weeks have been...absolute bliss. Complete, utter bliss. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I finally had him in my arms.”

  
“Be happy, Dove. If there is anyone that deserves to be happy that is you.” Deanna smiles. She can’t remember the last time her mother called her that, and her eyes well in tears.

  
“Seriously, who are you and what have you done with my mother?” There is mirth in her tone and her mother smiles.

  
“Well, I thought about it and realized it is about time that I started to act my age.”

  
“Mum, what brought on this?” There it is; her professional side going off like a blatant red alert in a Romulan attack.

  
“I don’t know. One day I woke up, looked around me and started questioning everything and everyone. Well, except you or your father.”

  
“Mum… Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  
“I’ll be fine, Dove. No need to worry.” A lean hand very much like her own lands on Deanna’s pale cheek. She sighs.

  
“Will you at least let me know if anything changes?”

  
“I will.”

  
“Alright then, I’ll get out of your hair so you can get some rest. I have a shift starting in fifteen minutes. How do you feel about dinner?”

  
“I’d love to.” A kiss and she is nearly out when her mother calls her name.

  
“Deanna?” She turns to look at her mother, “Bring Will. There are a few things I want to talk to him about.”

 

 

“Seriously, who is she? One night of meditation and I get a completely different mother thrown at me.”

  
“Well, weren’t you the one who wanted her less irreverent?” Will looks at her intently. They are sitting on the bridge, Picard is in his ready room and they are sitting side by side.  
“Yes, but something’s wrong, Will. I can feel it. I’ve never seen her so subdued before, so… monochromatic. She even called me ‘Dove,” Will; she hasn’t called me that since I was seven. She stopped calling me that after my father died.”

  
“Maybe she figured it was time to rescue the old ways. Don’t lose sleep over it, Deanna. Knowing your mother, she’ll be back to her old’, irreverent self in no time and you can go back to worrying about her embarrassing you in front of the entire senior crew.”

  
“Will, you’re not helping!” He laughs, looks around him to make sure no one is listening. When he is certain everyone is too engrossed in their respective tasks he leans closer to her.

  
“I’m sorry, Darling, but what do you want me to tell you? You’re the one with the psychology degree and empathic abilities, not me. She’s your mother, you know her better than anyone. Do you sense a threat?”

  
“No, it’s just her. But there is something inside her, something she’s not telling me. She won’t open her mind to me when we talk.”

  
“I thought you didn’t read minds.”

  
“I don’t, but for Betazoids, the connection to our kin goes beyond the reading of feelings. Betazoid women have a telepathic bond with their children…”

  
“Which is why you two communicate even when you’re not a telepath.”

  
“Exactly. It requires both parties to open a space in their mind and to share thoughts with the other. Lately, I feel she’s withholding. She is there, but she really isn’t. Does that make sense?”

  
“Sort of.” Deanna huffs, centering her eyes in the giant monitor that shows no excitement at the moment. The giant void of space salutes her like an old friend. She’d rather have red alerts blaring and battle stations been taken than having to think about her mother and her erratic behavior. She looks at the screen in front of her seat, it is nearly 6:30 and both their shifts are over. The shuffling of the shift changes, so familiar an occurrence, reaches her ears. Data approaches to take over the command seat.

  
Both of them get up. Data sits down as they both walk away. Once they are both out of the bridge and away from the eyes of everyone, Will takes her hand, intertwines his stubby fingers with hers and takes her hand to his lips. The kiss is soft as a feather and makes her heart nearly explode. She loves this man with all that she is.

  
“My mother wants to talk to you over dinner.”

  
“What about?”

  
“No clue, she just asked me to bring you over.”

  
“Same time as always?”

  
“Eight o’ clock.”


	3. Part III

She slips on the burgundy dress with the elegance of a swan, looks at herself in the mirror as her head tips slightly to the right. She shakes her head. No. Not this one. This isn't it. She slips out of the dress and into a blue one. This isn't it either.

She huffs, exasperated with herself. In the name of all that's holy, it's just a dress! Why is she making storms in a teacup?

"You know it's just a dress, right?" She turns around to look at Will.

"Shut up and help me pick. Burgundy or blue?" Will observes as she brings the dresses toward herself.

"Blue, but not this one." He walks toward the dresser, pulls out a blue dress and hands it to her. Deanna can't remember where this came from, she has no recollection of ever programming this dress into the dresser controller. It is Aegean blue, long and flowy, with a tall neckline and short sleeves.

"Will, this is beautiful!" she raves, looking at the dress with a little shine in her eyes, "How did you know this was in there?"

"I kind of cheated a little bit."

"Oh?"

"Your mother sent me to program it earlier. Sent me specifications and all."

"Of course," Deanna shakes her head with a sideways smile.

"See? What did I tell you? She's back to her old self once again."

"I don't know about that," she says as she gently pulls the dress from the hanger, "Turn around?" He does and she begins to tug the dress up her slender body, "There's still that barrier between us. There is something, Will, I am sure of it."

"What could be? Your mother is tougher than a boiled owl, as my granddaddy used to say. She's not defenseless, Love!"

"Yes, she's tough as nails but she's also gullible. I'm afraid something happened during one of her travels and she doesn't want me to know about it. You can turn around now."

And as he does he sees her. She is magnificent, the epitome of beauty to his eyes. She is Venus incarnate.

"So?" Deanna asks with the enthusiasm of a young girl whose father just bought a new dress, "How do I look?"

"You are a goddess," he manages out amidst a mouthful of air.

"You're not so bad yourself," Deanna replies as she straightens the insignias on his collar. She runs a hand through his hair to fix a loose strand and then plants a soft kiss on his lips. It is torture and heaven all rolled into one, and Will can feel the wave of desire rumbling through him. But this isn't the time, and this isn't the place. They talked about this once before, and they agreed to take it slow. Even if 'slow' is bound to drive him insane.

"Alright," he says when he manages to get his wits about him once again, "Are you ready?" Deanna nods and threats her hand in his, lean and elegant.

The dinner goes by uneventful, almost like a sick twist of destiny. Lwaxanna doesn't say a single word, and Will starts to feel himself despair. It isn't until the end of the night when the oldest Betazoid approaches him with a cup of coffee. It has milk in it but not sugar, and he instantly knows its Deanna's doing. She's within his frame of view, but far away that she can't hear them.

"Well, Commander. It was about time you and I had a little chat." Lwaxanna settles the cup right in front of him, then her own, containing some sort of root tea. She ruffles away a piece of her skirt as she sits down.

"Yes, I suppose it is." Will notices as her eyes fix on Deanna, who's at the other end of the room, putting the dirty dishes away for recycling.

"What are your intentions with my daughter, Mr. Riker?"

Will is taken aback by the question. He pulls in air, fixes his shirt in a rather clumsy manner and looks at Deanna for a minute. He considers making a joke about how that is a phrase for the father to say, but Lwaxanna does not look amused in the slightest and so he refrains from it.

"I love her. She's my world, my Imzadi. I want to make her happy, I want to make up for all those years we spent apart. I want to marry her, spend every minute of the life I still have left with her. Does she want to take it slow? Well, slow it is. Once she's ready to move on, I'll move alongside her. Not a moment sooner."

"What makes you think she wants slow, Mr. Riker?"

"Well, for one, she told me. And I know she's hurt; she's scared I'm going to hurt her again, no matter how much she reassures me she forgave me. But this last few weeks have been bliss, and I won't change that for all the gold in the multiverse. I rather have one minute with her than none at all."

"A woman needs actions, Mr. Riker, not words. If you love her, it is best you act fast."

"How are you so sure that is what Deanna wants, Mrs. Troi?" Will does not look at her, his eyes still lost in the distant sight that is Deanna.

"I know my daughter, Commander. The only thing she's ever wanted, ever since her father died, it's security."

Will doesn't say another word, merely observing his surroundings. A subtle movement of blue fabric catches his eye and he notices Deanna approaching. She sends him a smile as she walks, resplendent, and all his worries fade away in that very instant.

Deanna sits down in between her mother and Will, her long and bony fingers intertwine with Will's and he covers her dainty hand in his. Lwaxanna observes the scene. Yes, she's seen this before, definitely had it before, and she knows that love this strong is impossible to get over. So she is happy.

She is happy and proud, oh so proud of her baby girl. Just a few years ago she could barely go to sleep without somebody holding her hand, and now she was fully grown. She'd grown into a beautiful, strong, independent woman. And that strong woman was now in love with a wonderful man that she knew wouldn't disappoint her again. Yes, her Iain would be so proud of the daughter she turned out to be, the sweet girl he used to prop into his shoulders at the age of five had inherited her mother's capability for language and her father's knack with diplomacy, her mother's sensitivity, and her father's stubbornness.

"Did you two have a nice chat while I was away?" Deanna asks, interrupting her mother's daydream and plopping her right back to reality.

"Indeed," Will intersects before Lwaxanna can react and deflect the question, "Your mother was just telling me about the wonderful time she had on Risa last month."

"I had no idea you went to Risa last month."

"Where's my mind? I forgot to tell you. I am getting old, after all."

"It is a beautiful place; you remember, don't you?"

"Impossible to forget, Darling." That mischievous exchange of words says it all. These two are hiding something; but Lwaxanna does her best to not pry and changes the subject."

"And speaking of, you two have been on duty for almost a year, when do you plan on taking some well-deserved R&R?"

"I wish, I have a client to terminate this month, and another one next month. I can't just leave them like that. Afterward, we'll see."

"Well, yes," Lwaxanna acknowledges, "I suppose the work of the counselor is never over, is it?"

"No, it is not."

"Alright, spit it out, Riker," Deanna looks at him through the corner of her eye, "What did you and my mother spoke about, because I highly doubt it that my mother made me call you just to tell you about her fake trip to Risa."

"How did you know it was fake?"

"We're linked, remember?"

"Right," Will scratches his beard lightly with his thumb and forefingers, then crosses them off at his chest, "we talked about a lot of things."

"Will…"

"Alright, alright," Will sighs, there is a small beat and he starts up again, "We talked about you."

"About me? What in the world could you two have to talk about me?"

"Let's just say your mother wants to make sure that I don't mess things up again."

"I am going to strangle that woman as soon as I see her!" Deanna scoffs, "And here I thought she'd actually changed."

"Hey, hey," Will interrupts her outrage, placing his stubby hands on her shoulders to calm her down, "She loves you, just wanted to make sure that I was going to stick around. Also, she told me a couple of things about you that can come out handy sooner or later."

"Like?" It is a challenge, and Will can't keep himself from rising to it.

"Like the fact that probably you want something totally different for this relationship than what we spoke about and you're afraid to tell me. Look, we've been taking things slow because that is what you told me you wanted. I am here solely to please you, Dee, and if slow is what you want then we'll take it slow. But Deanna, my love, if what you want is something different, then, by all means, don't be afraid to ask for it. I will bend hell, if necessary, for you to have it."

Deanna gaps stupefied at his words. There is nothing but sweetness in his tone and honey in his eyes, and she is a brutally soft woman. He does this, bends the fire within her to his will, makes of her a child in women's clothing. And she falls for him more and more each day despite it. All it takes is that boyish charm of his and she is absolutely done for.

They're interrupted by the astringent sound of a red alert. The lights dim and start flashing red on the panels at the end of the room.

"All hands, this is the Captain," Picard's voice blares through the speakers, "We've encountered a cloaked ship, ten kilometers, starboard bound, it appears to be studying us. Please assume battle stations. I repeat; all hands, battle stations."

"What is that about? I've never heard him call battle stations before merely because a ship is scanning us. I guess we better report to the bridge, then. Saved by the bell, my love, but not for long." Will places a kiss on her forehead and helps her up and they both walk with brisk pace towards the closed elevator. The Enterprise buzzes with life as lower-level crewmen get to their posts and children and guests confine themselves to their quarters.

They reach the turbolift, surprisingly quiet despite the upheaval that is the ship. They get in and Will calls for the bridge. Minutes of silence and trepidation later, the metallic door open and they step out. Picard is sitting in the Captain's chair, one leg crossed over the other and a hand on the armrest, his usual sitting posture. Deanna and Will take their respective seats next to him. Will observes from the opposite end as she adopts a posture very similar to Picard's; right leg over left leg and fingers skillfully laced on her knee. Regal, he thinks.


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter, hopefully you guys don't mind.

“You know, Sir, if you wanted to test the effectiveness of your crew, the least you could do was wait until morning for this little surprise drill,” says Geordi chasing away the sleep from his eyes.

“Are you slacking on me, LaForge?”

“Sir, no Sir,” responds Geordi assuming military posture.

“Besides,” Picard adds, “The point of any surprise drill is to be performed at any time of the day.”

“Sir, if I may speak freely?” Will jumps in between the two men.

“Always, Number One.”

“It is almost one o’clock in the morning. Half the people on this ship were already in bed, trying to get some sleep so tomorrow, bright and early, their best selves can perform their best at their respective jobs.” Picard is quiet for a second, as if reflexing.

“As always, Number One, you are right. This seems to have been … inconsiderate on my part. It seems, all of you better get to bed, before I have a mutiny on my hands.”

 

After all crewmembers have retired from the bridge, Will and Deanna go back to their respective sleeping quarters. Will, ever the gentleman he is, drops her off before heading to his own. Their rooms are on different decks, which is perhaps the worse element of breaking apart after a long day at work. The worse days are when they can’t see each other, and for Deanna when Will goes on away missions.

She knows he tends to get in trouble in little to unknown environments, and every time she can’t help but fear for him, especially if she is not with him down there. She’s already lost two of the most important men in her life, her father and her son; and she cannot -- will not -- lose Will Riker.

 

Her fears come alive in the morning, when Picard sends Will and a few others of her comrades on an away mission. Yet again, her pulse accelerates; and she has a terrible time suppressing her thoughts and emotions. She reminds herself. Her job is to sort out other people’s emotions, hers are beside the point. That is the role of the counselor, that is what she took an oath to do.

But she just cannot shake that empty well in her stomach, that little ache in her heart. She cannot keep her head from going back to him repeatedly. Ultimately, when she sees that the pile of PADDs on her desk are the same as they were in the morning, she decides she’s had enough. She gets up, clears her desk, and walks out from her office and toward her room. Thankfully she has no more appointments today.

She arrives in her quarters to see her mother sitting in the couch by the viewport with a cup of tea and a book. She walks over and plops in the couch next to her with a desperate look in her eyes. Both thin hands fly to her face, she groans as if she were five all over again and sitting in the parlor, forced into a history lesson she does not care for.

“Rough day, Little One?”

“Tell me about it.”

“Something wrong?”

“I’m worried about him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Darling, this isn’t his first away mission.”

“I know, but Will tends to get into trouble far more often when he is in uncharted territory. I can’t lose him, not after Daddy, not after Iain.” Again, Deanna sighs and uncovers her face. Lwaxanna sets the book and the cup down in the coffee table, turns slightly to look at her. Deanna’s eyes, usually a pool of serenity, are now a void; nothing but emptiness. Her beautiful daughter, once a mother too, lost her little one in the cruelest of ways. Ian Andrew Troi, like her father. A fitting name for such gentleness.

“Do you remember when your father used to go away on missions?” Deanna nods, hands now dutifully recoiled on her lap, “He would leave us alone for days, sometimes months, and I just couldn’t shake away that lingering feeling of dread that settled after his parting. I always thought he wasn’t coming back to me, yet each time he proved me wrong and did, and I was the happiest woman in the world.” Deanna smiled.

“How did you get over it?”

“I told myself many, many times that Iain Andrew Troi was like a bloody sludge and there was no way in hell that I could rid myself of the bastard.” Deanna laughs. Will walks in and when she sees him, Deanna flies up on her feet and runs to him.

“Will! Thank the Four Deities you’re here!”

“Miss me?” He jokes as he pulls Deanna close.

“I’m just glad you’re back,” Deanna says, relieved beyond measure from the safety of Will’s arms.

“Commander,” Lwaxanna approaches the couple on her way out of Deanna’s quarters, “I’m afraid that if you don’t give the girl a pep talk, she will lose her mind every time you go away on missions. I’ll leave, you two kids talk.”

When the doors close behind Lwaxanna, Will drags her to the sofa and nestles her on his side. He kisses her, long and tender and passionately.

“Want to tell me what your mother was raging about?”

“Nothing, it’s silly.”

“Not silly if it comes out of your lips, Dee. C’mon, what’s up?”

“It’s just that every time you go away on missions … well, there’s this little sensation I get, an emptiness at the bottom of my stomach, like you’re constantly in danger. Unfortunately, that little sensation is usually right.” Will looks at her but utters not a word, “Like I said, it’s silly.”

Only after the words sink on him does he speak again.

“I feel the same way when you go and I’m not there to protect you. Even if it’s Picard that’s with you, even when I know for a fact that you’re no damsel in distress, so to speak, there’s this feeling I get. Like, something’s hollow in me.”

Deanna runs a hand through his hair, then his face, running ever so gently over his cheek. He catches it, kisses it with equal tenderness, then takes her lips.

“Ever since the incident with Armus on Vagra II, I cannot shake this feeling away. I might’ve been injured in that shuttlecraft, fighting him every chance I got, but when he dragged you in, when I felt the pain you were in… Will, I…”

“Shh, it’s been nearly three years since Vagra II, I don’t think any of us can forget what happened down there, to Prieto, to Tasha, you and I were lucky to escape from the skin of evil.” He runs a hand through her hair, sets a rebellious obsidian lock into place.

“Then there was Surata IV, nearly killed me seeing you like that. The infection would not cede and kept spreading, and the mere sight of you in pain made me want to hurl. And I knew, I knew it was the only way to save you, but I couldn’t.”

Will looks at her, places a soft kiss on her forehead and pulls her closer still. Deanna closes her eyes; the memories attack her like some sort of plague.

“You know,” he says, “you’re not usually so open about your feelings. I know your job demands you stay objective, but… it’s nice to see it occasionally. I don’t think we’ve ever had this conversation before.”

“My job is to help others sort out their emotions. My own feelings are beside the point.”

“That’s all great, Imzadi, but who counsels the counselor? Have you ever thought about that? Just don’t forget your human side, my love.”

“My human side, that only you can see, Darling.” His lips find and take hers. The kiss is charged, a rumble of thunder against an ocean of calm, it hungers and pains in both of their bodies. Desire is a heatwave that can no longer be quenched or placated.

Soon their bodies clash in perfect harmony. Coarse, stubby hands against lean and bony ones. Coppery skin against pale porcelain. Then the clothes disappear and so do the lovers. They disappear in the rhythm of their hearts beating at once, in a concerto of caresses, in the cadence of the bedsheets. They disappear in the sleek sweat and in the rumble of passion and meet once again at the edge of the abyss.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Part V

 

She wakes up to bright lights and strong arms securing her at the waist. She smiles, elated, the memory of their previous night together ingrained in every fiber of her being. Will sleeps still, sound like a baby, lulled by the hum of the engines.

The room is in shadows and it takes her a while to dissect her surroundings. The numbers on the alarm clock on the wall keep on flickering, just like they were in the morning and she remembers she needs to put in a request for that thing to be fixed. There is the dresser in the other corner of the room and from the bed, she can see the bird of paradise plant atop the bathroom counter.

Will stirs, redirecting her attention from the items in the room to him. A shrewd hand travels from her hipbone to her arm, then makes its way to her face. She looks up to a drowsy Will and smiles. He plants a soft kiss on her lips and cradles her back on his arms before she has any chance to scurry away.

"How did you sleep?" She asks.

"Like I haven't in years. You?"

"In your arms, I was in heaven, Imzadi." Their lips meet and sparks fly. They are burning embers, alight in space and time. Separately they are great, but together they are a force to be reckoned with. Two hearts beating as one and two bodies incapable of staying away from the other.

She can hate her job sometimes. She loves it, true, but sometimes it gets on her nerves. Sometimes the emotions of others don't leave space for her own, and it is then when she is at the most vulnerable.

Deanna looks at the rooster on the PADD at her desk. Crud, she thinks, her next client is a child. He just lost his only living relative, and it is up to her to clean up after Picard's mess. The child's reaction was not the worse, but it wasn't the best either.

She looks at the chronometer on the wall; there's still some time left before her client arrives, and Deanna paces back and forth in her office. It's been months since she lost Iain, but her motherly side is still mourning for her son. She hasn't taken any clients of the miniature variety, she doesn't believe she has the strength to do so without crumbling and interfering on the therapeutic process.

The dark-eyed Betazoid takes a deep breath, releases it, stops at her desk, looks for a file on the boy and reads over it. It is time, if she doesn't do it now she will never do it. Deanna turns toward the picture of her dad, says a silent prayer, asks for the fortitude to affront this leap, and then, as her miniature client walks in, she takes the plunge.

He's come accompanied by Lieutenant Worf; as always clad in the Security-yellow uniform. The boy appears about seven years old; maybe eight, and her mind reverts to Iain.

There it is again; that pang at the very core of her, that ache in the heart that appears only when she thinks of her son and her father. Breathing in as deep as possible she stills herself; then walks over to the boy. She kneels so that she's at the boy's height and smiles as she takes a look at him; up and down, down and up.

He's shorter than most children his age; with bright, blue eyes and crinkly flames for hair. His small face is full of freckles; making him look like a Klingon speckled targ. A fun mix between handsome and adorable, she thinks.

"Hi," she says, "What's your name?" The boy tugs at the pockets of his overalls, fidgets with the collar of his green turtleneck.

"Ezra."

"Hi, Ezra. I'm Deanna. Would you like to sit down?" The boy sits, still fidgeting with his clothes, eyes fixedly gripped on the floor. Deanna looks up and targets Worf.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll take it from here." She keeps her eyes on the bulk of Worf's back as she sees him walk out of the office. Once the doors are closed, her eyes focus on Ezra once more.

He is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed underneath the weight of his body. The boy has surrounded his small frame with the accent pillows, a simple gesture, but protective enough to make him feel safe. Deanna can barely make anything out of the confusion in the boy's mind.

"So, Ezra, how are you today?"

"Okay, I guess," replies the boy after a moment of consideration.

"Can you tell me today's date?"

"Wednesday, December 12, 2367. Stardate 45395.67."

"Do you know why you're here, Ezra?"

"My mummy passed away in an away mission."

"That's right. How do you feel about that?" When the boy doesn't reply, Deanna elaborates her question further, "Do you feel sad?" The boy nods, eyes fixed on the floor. Deanna pushes even further.

"Do you want to tell me why you are sad, Ezra?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, then. We can talk about it later on, when you feel like it, okay?"

"Okay."

There is silence for the better part of half an hour. Ezra doesn't say a word, but Deanna dedicates the entire time to observing him closely and jotting down her observations in her notes. With a critical detective's eye, she looks for key behaviors that can be helpful in the future.

Toward nearly the end of the session, Deanna notices the small, lithe framework softly back and forth. The rocking turns violent, and she hears the boy whimper like a puppy in a thunderstorm. He's sobbing violently, snot running out and all. Deanna walks toward her desk, grabs a box of tissues from the first left drawer, and walks back to him.

"May I sit here?" she asks. The boy nods, Deanna hands him the box, "You want to tell me about it?"

"Mummy and I fought that morning. She asked me to pick up my toys. She was running late for her shift down in Engineering, and I had to get to school. I refused, threw a tantrum. I didn't even get to tell her I was sorry."

"I'm sure she knew and understood."

"Uh-uh. I don't think so. She did the best she could, and I was bad to her. She didn't deserve it."

Deanna cleans a tear from his face with her thumb, holds his face so that their eyes meet. She can feel the terror starting to bubble inside him, far more pronounced than the confusion and the darkness.

"That's not true, Ezra. And I think you know that. You're just a child, you didn't know any better. And you certainly could not have known what was going to happen to your mother."

When their time together ends, Deanna escorts the lad back to his room. It is way past what she assumes is his dinner time, and she replicates a meal for him consisting of some soup and a sandwich. Ezra takes a few bites of his dinner, leaving most of it untouched, and goes to crawl up in the Victorian-style loveseat by the window.

Soon enough, tired by the events of the day and lulled by the humming of the engines and the movement of the stars, the boy falls sound asleep. Deanna picks him up, carries him to the bedroom and tucks him in without so much as a whimper on the boy's part.

"What's going to happen to him?" She asks later that night, safely wrapped in Will's arms.

"Not sure, Dee. I suppose, take him back to Earth"

"But he'll be all alone."

"I know. Believe me, I've exhausted every channel, but Picard won't hear reason. Says he doesn't want an unaccompanied minor creating liability for the rest of us. At least on Earth, the lad's got a chance of finding a new family."

"Will," she says, pulling away to look at him straight in the eyes, "he's seven, how is that a liability?"

The next morning, after a serious debate with the Captain, Deanna manages to convince him of letting the boy stay onboard. How she's done it eludes her, but at least he is where she can keep an eye on him.

"You seem awfully invested in this boy, Counselor," remarks Picard.

"Just doing my duty, Captain. It is imperative we keep track of this boy's mental health."

"Well then, consider it your duty to look after the boy. Whatever happens, it's your neck on the line."

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"Dismissed."

She walks out of the Captain's ready room with a smile on her face; unsure of how she managed to change his mind when even Will failed to do so. Sometimes it amazes her when he just gives up mid-argument and rules in her favor. Almost like putty in a child's hand, she thinks.

The idea pops into her head in the middle of the night. She opens her eyes, pushes the covers away and gets out of bed as slowly as possible. Will, sound asleep, turns away to look at the bulkhead but keeps asleep as she walks out of the room.

"Computer, lights at 30%." And the room emerges from darkness. Deanna paces around; quick, quiet, restless steps that seldom stray away from the floor. Her mind wanders, strays away, and she doesn't realize Will is up and talking to her. Only when he walks up to her and loops his arms around her waist does she turn to look at him.

"Hey," he says, kissing softly the crown of her head, "Where did you go?"

"I've been thinking… The boy, Ezra…"

"Dee…" he starts, but she cuts him off.

"I know, I know. But the boy, Will. You should have seen him;" she bites her lower lip, "he's so small, so alone. I could feel it, so vivid, Will. He was terrified."

"He reminded you of Iain, didn't he?" It is not a question, more of an affirmation, but Deanna nods anyway.

"You have no idea."

"You know I am proud of you, right, Dee? I know I don't say it enough."

"I know, Imzadi. I know."


End file.
